


Open Mic

by potentiallyAWKWARD



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, D/s, Dom!John, I REGRET NOTHING, M/M, Orgasm Denial, PWP, Riding Crop, Rimming, mutual wank, sub!Sherlock, urethral sound
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-13 22:41:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11194944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potentiallyAWKWARD/pseuds/potentiallyAWKWARD
Summary: I asked for prompts. The group delivered.





	1. Chapter 1

John cursed himself, cursed the London traffic, and cursed his daughter (but that one he felt immediately bad about and shoved to the back of his mind) as he took the steps up to the flat two at a time. Bloody formula, he couldn't wait until Rosie was a bit older and wouldn't need to eat enriched, expensive foods.

He opened the kitchen door and ducked in, not bothering to say hello to his flatmate. To be fair, the detective had still been in his room, sleeping, when John had left the first time to take Rosie to Molly Hooper's. (God bless that woman for looking after his daughter so often.)

The refrigerator opened, and John was only partly disgusted to find a pickled organ (spleen, maybe?) on the shelf next to the carton of milk. He would need to have another chat with Sherlock to remind him that now that there was a baby in the house, he had to clean up after himself and put his experiments far out of reach.

John heard a shift of leather in the living room. He went to the door, one hand clutching the baby bottle and the other raised in greeting, but he quickly lowered it, shutting his eyes and turning away.

His heart pounded in his chest. From embarrassment, of course, because becoming aroused at seeing his flatmate having a wank in his chair was completely inappropriate.

The heat pooling in John's stomach, however, seemed to disagree.

John had almost gotten the decency to turn around and leave the flat as quickly as possible when there was another sound from the chair.

A low, guttural moan, several octaves lower than Sherlock's regular speaking voice. It was the single most erotic thing John had ever heard, and that was saying quite a bit. Almost without thinking, John placed the bottle haphazardly on the kitchen table, walking hesitantly into the living room.

I'm a bloody pervert, John thought with surprisingly little disgust, for not leaving as soon as I realized what was happening.

But he could hardly be blamed, could he, when Sherlock's miles of legs were naked and splayed like a common whore's, his neck and cheeks pink and blotchy, his hair-dusted chest heaving as his oiled hand tugged at his prick.

He was surprisingly rough with himself, the small part of John's brain that wasn't in total shutdown mode observed. One long fingered hand was wrapped around his cock, seemingly intent to rip it off himself, and his other hand was occupied with one of his dusky nipples, twisting and pulling harder than John would've ever dared.

That's when Sherlock shifted, slipping down in his chair and legs raising into the air. John only got to appreciate the view for a second before he noticed it- a handle of some sort sticking out of Sherlock's bum. John's entire body convulsed when he imagined something considerably more fleshy and personally satisfying being lodged up the detective's arse.

Well, his denims were getting very uncomfortable now, weren't they. Sherlock probably wouldn't mind if John just... but no. Even with lower brain function than normal he knew that would be crossing a huge line, wanking while watching someone else wanking without their knowledge.

And then Sherlock's head tilted back up, a small, keening sound coming from his mouth before his eyes opened and locked with John's gaze immediately. He didn't seem surprised, or embarrassed, or indignant; rather, his tongue darted out and moistened those Cupid's bow lips, mouth opening slightly and the blush climbing higher up his face.

Their gazes held for several seconds, John having stilled as if Sherlock was a certain serpent-haired Gorgon, before Sherlock's mouth moved.

"Touch-" he managed, voice low and gravelly and Jesus, how could a voice be so arousing, another few words and he'd have John cumming in his pants like a randy teenager; did Sherlock want John to touch him or touch himself, or was it merely a statement, yes John I am touching myself in our shared living space, feel free to start the kettle?

Without permission (wasn't that rich), John yanked down his denims and pants, taking the few remaining steps to Sherlock and dropping to his knees.

Sherlock's eyes followed him all the way to the floor, and then his entire body twitched with a groaned, "oh fuck."

Had John ever heard Sherlock say that word? Not in this context, anyway.

"What do you want me to do?" John asked, slightly embarrassed by the breathlessness of his own voice.

Sherlock groaned again, spreading his legs further. "Toy out. Rimjob," he grit out, the hand not assaulting his poor prick fisting in John's hair (he knew there was a reason he didn't want to cut it, Jesus fuck.)

John tugged gently at the handle poking out of Sherlock's arse, surprised by how easily it slid out. He was very lubricated and ready. How easy it would be to just bend him over and-

But no. That's not what Sherlock wanted. John set the toy on the floor and leaned in toward the detective, licking a stripe up his perineum. Sherlock shuddered. Encouraged, John ran his tongue directly over the detective's puckered hole.

The sound that Sherlock made was enough to make the tip of John's cock weep. Something between a moan and a cry, entirely unwarranted but not unwelcome.

John stiffened his tongue and poked it in slowly, only stopping when his lips touched the sweaty, musky skin around his arse. He thrust it in and out, eyes closing as he focused. Thank God he had done this before or he would be completely clueless.

The sound John's tongue made as it fucked Sherlock was obscene. His balls ached, so he reached down and rubbed at his poor cock, unable to wait any longer.

John next flicked his tongue over Sherlock's arsehole, lips around the pink hole as he sucked.

Sherlock's hand was getting erratic around his cock now. "Fuck- John, I'm going to cum- fuck!"

His legs stiffened as his hips jerked off the leather chair, cum spurting over his fingers onto his abdomen. John leaned back, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand as he tossed off with the other. He was getting dangerously close already, and Sherlock staring at him like a debauched sex god was not helping.

"Fuck, that was good," Sherlock moaned, locking gazes with John once again. "Come on, John. Let me see you cum. I want to lick you clean."

John let out a grunt and then a moan before he felt his cock pulse in his hand, hot cum dripping down his fingers as he found his release. "Fuck... yes," John groaned as he came down, the startling white behind his eyes fading back to normal.

He opened his eyes, panting, surprised by the hunger in Sherlock's face as he looked down at the doctor. "Fantastic, John. Absolutely brilliant," he breathed, carding his fingers through the older man's hair. "Stand up so I can clean you up."

John stood on his wobbly legs, hands reaching out and taking Sherlock's shoulders. The way Sherlock looked up at John from between his legs was almost enough to get John ready for round two.

Sherlock stuck out his tongue, inviting John's hand. He obliged, sticking three sticky fingers in and moaning as Sherlock sucked. "Fuck, Sherlock."

Sherlock's tongue went between his first and middle finger before he pulled back and said quite mischievously, "Oh, I plan to."

John stared for a moment before moving both hands to Sherlock's face, bending down, and crashing his mouth to Sherlock's.

Sherlock's mouth was softer than it looked, John discovered. It was minty and tinged with the taste of John's salty cum and one hundred percent Sherlock.

Their tongues brushed briefly before John pulled back, panting slightly. "I have to run this formula to Molly's. Continue when I get back?"

Sherlock's eyes twinkled as he leaned back in his chair. "I'll hold you to it, John."

"Oh, I know you will," John smiled before heading back to the kitchen, grabbing the bottle, and leaving 221B Baker Street.

-fin-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Allan.


	2. 11 Grams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock whines. John snaps.

Sherlock Holmes flopped dramatically onto his couch, seemingly unaware of the almost full cup of tea in his hand. "John."

The doctor looked up from his laptop impatiently. He was in the middle of the second draft of his blog post, and he needed it to be uploaded in the next few hours. "What?"

"This tea is awful. It's too sweet. You didn't level the sugar off when you added the two teaspoons, so I have about eleven grams of sugar in my tea instead of the regular eight. That's almost a forty percent increase in sugar." He slammed the offending cup onto the coffee table, stacked high with papers, slopping a bit down the side of the porcelain.

For several seconds John stared at the cup, jaw working slightly. Finally, slowly, his blue eyes slid up to Sherlock's. His mouth had curled into a small, humorless smile. Sherlock knew that look well: John was angry. Very angry.

"Sherlock," John began very carefully, keeping his voice low, but before he could continue, the detective interjected.

"If you're going to apologize, don't bother. I'm sure you won't make the same mistake again."

John's smile widened and he flexed his hands.

Three...

Two...

One.

"Bedroom. Now."

Sherlock shut his mouth. That wasn't quite the response he was expecting. Maybe he had underestimated the amount of irritation he had caused John throughout the past week. He quickly stood and shuffled through the kitchen and hallway, opening the door to his bedroom and ducking in.

John was just behind him, back ramrod straight. Once in his bedroom Sherlock hesitated, turning toward John, but the doctor simply swept past him and went straight to Sherlock's wardrobe.

Yes. Sherlock had definitely, definitely made a miscalculation. Without another word, Sherlock shrugged off his blue silk dressing gown, folding it carefully and setting it on the chair in the corner. Next came his pyjama bottoms and t-shirt, folding them just as meticulously and precisely as the robe.

The detective could hear John moving about behind him, could hear the slither of ropes, and he had a good idea as to what the doctor was doing. He rolled his neck, steeling himself for a long afternoon.

Once the movement ceased behind him, he turned to John, extremely mortified by the slight hardness of his cock. Usually, sexual arousal could be hidden by clothing, but standing naked in front of the other man, everything was out in the open.

John's eyes were dark and predatory. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat as John slowly sauntered to the detective, not breaking eye contact. He could feel the anger radiating from the older man, the heat from his gaze pooling directly in Sherlock's abdomen.

"First, you are going to lean over the bed so I can discipline you. Then, I will tease you and edge you until you are aching to cum for me, and I will leave you tied up in this room while I finish my blog post. Once you've had time to think about what you've done, I will fuck you. This will not be for you, this will be for me. You will not cum. You will not be able to touch me. Do you understand?" John's voice was quiet and deadly and slow and painfully sexy. Sherlock's knees weakened just listening. 

"Don't say anything, just nod," John added as Sherlock's mouth opened to respond.

Hesitating for only a moment, Sherlock nodded, brushing past his Dominant (for that was his role at the moment) to the large bed and bent over at the waist, legs spread.

The right side of his face pressed into the duvet. It was soft, made with goose down and satin. It had been a gift from a client, given to him after he had solved the-

swishthwack.

Sherlock jumped, crying out at the sudden bite of pain that jolted up his body. John had grabbed the riding crop from the wardrobe while Sherlock had been turned away, not giving any warning before his first blow.

The second one came just as swiftly, landing on his other cheek. Prepared this time, Sherlock bit back a moan. It stung a bit, yeah, but more than being painful, it was pleasurable.

Two more strikes, just below the others. "I want you to list every offense this week, and the number of occurrences. Each occurrence gets one blow." John's voice was louder now that he was in control; more commanding. Sherlock shuddered, wracking his suddenly surprisingly blank brain.

"I used up all the hot water in the shower twice." thwackthwack. "I left the toothpaste lid off four times." thwackthwackthwackthwack. "I- ah- left a mess in the kitchen two- no, three times." thwackthwackthwack.

Sherlock was panting now, squirming against the bed as he sought friction for his shamefully, achingly hard cock. Each hit got harder, the jolt of painpleasure increasing with each blow.

"I... um... I... woke you up with my violin at 3:00AM. Once." thwack. "And I- I- fuck, I complained about your tea once." THWACK.

The last one was the hardest blow of them all, landing just at the root of his cock. Sherlock cried out, hips bucking into the mattress as a dribble of pre-cum leaked from his aching cock. He rut into the mattress, not caring that it was pathetic.

"I-" thwack. "Said-" thwack. "You-" thwack. "Are-" thwack. "Not-" thwack. "Allowed-" thwack. "To-" thwack. "Cum." THWACK.

Sherlock cried out, knees buckling under him. He fell to the hardwood floor, hands gripping the duvet in the valiant attempt not to touch his twitching prick.

"On the bed. Spread eagle," John commanded, voice slightly hoarse. Sherlock scrambled up to obey, laying down as requested. John started with Sherlock's left hand- grabbed his wrist and yanked, putting it through a slip knot and pulling taut. He repeated the process with the remaining three limbs until Sherlock felt very exposed and very, very hard.

John admired his work for a moment, eyes steely. His gaze lingered at some places longer than others- his dribbling, straining cock, for example- which only made Sherlock harder. God, he didn't care if he couldn't cum, he needed John to touch him.

Finally, John stepped forward. He rolled up the sleeves of his jumper (God, that should not be so arousing) and stroked Sherlock's thigh with one gentle hand.

"I am very angry at you, Sherlock."

He sounded it. Not the type of angry that led to screaming and violence, but the dark, seething type of anger that built up overtime. His voice was quiet.

John's hand twitched up slowly, slowly, getting closer to the source of Sherlock's problem by millimetres. Sherlock squirmed against his restraints, just wanting John to touch his prick.

Finally, John ran his fingertips lightly up the underside of Sherlock's shaft. His index finger caught a bead of pre-cum, spreading it over Sherlock's glans and head.

"Do you understand why I am punishing you?" Just as quiet. Just as hypnotic. Just as angry. "You may respond."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, surprised by how steady his voice was, considering the hand on his (extremely erect) cock.

"Do you agree that you deserve to be punished?"

"Yes!" Sherlock hissed, hips bucking, as John rubbed his frenulum. "John, please-"

And then John had his fist wrapped around Sherlock's cock and he was pumping him, wrist twisting and tugging, and John's hand was dry but it felt so good, Sherlock didn't care, as long as John kept doing exactly what he was doing.

"Tell me when you're close. If you cum, we start all over."

Sherlock moaned in response, his higher brain functions having abandoned him for the moment. His hips thrust up and into John's hand, bringing him closer and closer to orgasm.

His toes tingled and warmth spread up his legs, his cock was twitching, God, would it be worth starting over just to cum?

"Close," Sherlock gasped, twisting in his bonds.

John's hand flew up and away from Sherlock's body, his cock left bobbing and twitching and dribbling onto his abdomen.

For several minutes all that could be heard in the bedroom was Sherlock panting. John had taken a step back, watching impassively as Sherlock slowly accepted the fact that he would not reach orgasm today.

"Are you ready?" John finally asked, going to Sherlock's bedside stand and opening the drawer.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, voice strained. Even without stimulus, his cock had not flagged or softened. From where he was laying, Sherlock could not see what the doctor was doing, but judging by the sound, he was searching for something small and relatively unused.

The drawer closed and John turned back around, holding a small plastic case and a bottle of lubricant. Sherlock's cock twitched as John came closer, opening the case and pulling out the small, ribbed metal rod. It was about as thick and long as a coffee stirrer straw.

The doctor climbed onto the bed and kneeled between Sherlock's legs, eyeing his cock. Sherlock threw his head back, eagerly waiting for what he knew was coming.

The bottle of lube opened with a snap and the cool gel dropped onto the head of the detective's cock. John rubbed it in, paying special attention to Sherlock's slit.

The sound got a dollop of lube as well, and John spread it across the textured rod. He swirled it lightly around Sherlock's slit, slowly dipping it into his urethra.

Sherlock moaned, loud and long and completely out of his mind with lust as the skinny pole went deeper and deeper into his cock. After about five millimetres, John pulled it back out slowly, leaving just the tip in.

It burned a little, felt foreign, but it was so intensely arousing Sherlock felt as if the smallest movement of the sound would tip him over the edge. John pushed it back in, just as slowly, until only about a millimeter remained.

"Feel okay?" he asked, twisting it a bit.

"John," Sherlock sighed, thrashing his head and pulling against his restraints. "Please, let me-"

John landed a sharp smack across Sherlock's prick, and the detective's vision went blissfully white for a moment.

"Fuck! John," he cried out, hips thrusting.

"I've told you already that you are not cumming. Do not ask again," John said sharply. The hand that had just hit Sherlock now gripped the detective's cock again, squeezing gently upwards.

The pressure was almost too much. Sherlock could feel his orgasm building as John continuing his slow hand-fucking, each upward slide ending with a thrust of the urethral sound.

Suddenly, John's grip tightened almost painfully around the detective's cock and he was tugging, up and down and up and down and fuck, Sherlock was cumming-

"CLOSECLOSECLOSECLOSE!" Sherlock shouted, the sound sliding halfway out as his orgasm built. Just one more stroke and he would be gone.

John released him just in time, and Sherlock let out a cry of frustration, hips thrusting uselessly in the air. John sat back, panting a little bit, rubbing his palm against his own achingly hard, clothed erection.

When Sherlock had finally settled again, small whimpering moans subsiding, John slowly removed the sound and stood.

"I'm going to finish the blog post. I know you are able to cum without being touched. Do this and you'll be wearing a chastity cage for a month. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded mutely, cheeks flushed and mouth open. John tossed the lubricant back into the nightstand and took the sound out with him, putting it in a pot of water and setting it on the stove to boil.

***

Nearly an hour later, John made his way back to the bedroom. He had hardly been able to concentrate while he worked, kept busy by his half-hard cock and the image of Sherlock tied to the bed, helpless.

Sherlock looked up immediately when the doctor returned, flagging cock twitching hopefully. John said nothing, only grabbed the lube again and quickly undressed. Without a word, John lubed up his index and middle fingers, plunging them into the detective.

Sherlock cried out at the sudden intrusion, but lifted his hips up for easier access. John grabbed his hip and pushed him back down forcefully. "Not for you, remember? Don't say a word, not a single word, Sherlock."

Sherlock whimpered again (God, he was starting to sound like a sad puppy) but remained quiet. John quickly added a third finger, pumping hard and fast.

Just as Sherlock adjusted to having three fingers in him, John was lubing up his arsehole and his own cock and then he was lined up and going in, in, in, fast and deep and merciless.

John bracketed Sherlock's torso with his forearms as he thrust into Sherlock again and again, quick, ragged little thrusts that made Sherlock's cock dribble but not enough to push him over the edge. The doctor's mouth opened with a gasp.

"You're so fucking tight, Christ." Already his thrusts were getting erratic, rough enough to bruise Sherlock but he didn't seem to mind. "Say it."

"What?" Sherlock breathed, voice an octave too high.

"You know what," John grit out, eyes squeezing closed and mouth gaping as he got closer to the edge.

Sherlock racked his sex-addled brain, trying to think. What on earth was he expecting? Oh- "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Sherlock gasped, clenching around John.

The doctor's eyes widened and he leaned down, biting Sherlock's neck almost hard enough to draw blood as he grunted and with two final, rough thrusts, came deep inside Sherlock.

"Fuck, Sherlock," John panted, rolling off of the detective. "Jesus fucking Christ."

Sherlock didn't trust himself to speak, didn't trust himself to move, afraid even a slight draft of air would send him reeling through an orgasm.

"Don't pull something like this again, you twat," the doctor finally snarked, standing and walking out of the bedroom to fetch a wet flannel.

Sherlock smiled. All was well at 221B Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Kate.


	3. Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this as a birthday present to myself. Sherlock practices karaoke. John gets uncomfortable.

Even as he climbed the stairs to 221B, John could hear the music. Well, it would have been more surprising if he hadn't heard it, actually, considering the volume of the music. The bass rumbled deep in his chest, like it had so often at concerts when he was in Uni.

There was some sort of snare drum or something involved, a deep, sensual rhythm. Not exactly a Sherlock-type song, John thought as he opened the door. There weren't enough violins.

John shifted the paper sack in his arms, about to shout for Sherlock to turn it down, when he finally looked up.

Sherlock stood on the coffee table, the papers all thrown aside hastily. He had moved the table so that it was against the wall, like a small stage.

Which made sense, seeing as he had procured a microphone (a rather expensive looking one, John thought) and a large speaker.

Sherlock had his eyes closed, focusing on the music. The microphone was held loosely, comfortably, at his side as he swayed.

But then, Sherlock held the microphone up to his mouth and began to sing. "You let me violate you, you let me desecrate you, you let me penetrate you, you let me complicate you-"

Sherlock didn't seem to know John was in the room, thankfully, because the doctor was sure his emotions ran freely across his face for a few moments. Holy shit, he would have never guessed Sherlock could sing, or whatever this breathy moaning was, let alone that he would choose to sing something like this.

John rushed to the kitchen to put away the groceries, hoping that Sherlock would not notice him until he was well away and under control.

"Help me, I broke apart my insides, help me, I've got no soul to sell, help me, the only thing that works for me, help me get away from myself-"

John tried to tune out the singing, he really did, but then eight words were breathily sung into the microphone and the doctor dropped the can of tomato soup he was holding.

"I want to fuck you like an animal-"

John whipped around unconsciously, breath hitching. Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock had his eyes open and he was staring at John, mouth curved into a sexy sneer.

"-I want to feel you from the inside-"

Was John gaping? He wasn't sure. Sherlock's eyes and words had taken ahold of him and were not letting go.

"-I want to fuck you like an animal-"

Somehow John had ended up right below Sherlock's impromptu stage, close enough to see how dilated the detective's pupils were.

"-my whole existence is flawed. You get me closer to God."

Sherlock's smirk widened as he dramatically stepped off the table, leaning over John uncomfortably close as the brief music break concluded.

"You can't help my isolation, you can't help the had that it brings, you can't help my absence of faith, you can't help my everything. Help me, you tear down my reason, help me, your sex I can smell, help me, you make me perfect, help me think of somebody else-"

Sherlock's lips were so close to John's ear that he could feel them brush his lobe, his voice barely above a purr. "I want to fuck you like an animal."

John gasped involuntarily, hips twitching. God, his trousers were getting uncomfortably tight, but judging by the bulge at his right hip, so were Sherlock's.

"I want to feel you from the inside. I want to fuck you like an animal!-" Sherlock shoved John onto the couch and straddled him, like a private lap dance in his very own living room.

"-my whole existence is flawed. You get me closer to God," Sherlock finished, tossing the microphone onto the cushion beside John and leaning in, pressing a not-so-chaste kiss to the doctor's mouth.

John groaned as Sherlock's tongue traced his lower lip, his hips grinding up to Sherlock's. He had only been gone a night, away at a conference in Brighton. What had happened between then and now?

The music was still going, reaching the end, but neither of them cared. All they could focus on was their lips mouths tongues fingers hair skin cocks brushing through denim- fuck, John was going to cum in his pants like a bloody teenager if Sherlock kept rutting against him like this.

John broke away from the kiss, mouth moving to Sherlock's exposed (and rather bent) neck. He kissed and sucked and bit very gently, and then not-so-gently when Sherlock groaned like John had his cock in his mouth or something spectacular.

Sherlock panted in John's ear as he writhed in the doctor's lap. "Fuck, John, I'm going to cum-" he gasped, voice deep and rumbly and sexy, and then he stilled, head falling against John's shoulder as his cock pulsed, wetting the front of his expensive trousers.

John groaned, hands snaking around Sherlock's hips to his arse and squeezing as Sherlock panted. Fuck, this was the hottest thing that had ever happened to him, he was getting so close, the muscles in his legs twitching-

"Cum for me, John," Sherlock moaned, teeth latching onto the lobe of John's ear.

John cried out, hands flying to Sherlock's hair as he came. He could feel it oozing through the fabric of his pants and trousers, forming a small wet spot near the zipper.

Sherlock rolled off of John, collapsing onto the couch. After several minutes of heavy breathing and shock, Sherlock reached under himself and pulled out the microphone.

John chuckled. "Whose is that, anyway?"

Sherlock grinned gleefully. "Mycroft's."

Both men burst into giggles, completely childish and ridiculous as it seemed. Once they had regained their composure, John got to the real question: "Why the hell were you singing that?"

Sherlock grinned lazily. "There's an open karaoke at a bar tomorrow night and a suspect is going to be there. In order to get a good look around, I'll need to get onstage. The theme tomorrow is 1990s American Alternative, which is ridiculous, but can't be helped. Nine Inch Nails is a famous alternative band from the nineties and Closer is one of their more famous songs, so the bar will most likely have it on file."

John soaked this in. "...so this wasn't an attempt to get in my pants?" he finally asked, feigning offense.

Sherlock smirked, nudging him with his shoulder. "No, that was just a bonus."


End file.
